His Way
by Nana-41175
Summary: Vampire!Mycroft/Lestrade fic, picks up right after "Possession". DI Lestrade is asking unwelcome questions about the events surrounding Sherlock's disappearance-things that might blow the entire thing wide open- questions that Vampire!Mycroft will not allow him to ask. Mystrade, with established Vampire!Sherlock/John alternating chapters. Rated T/M. Chapter 2 up! Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**HIS WAY**

_A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU fic_

_Vampire!Mycroft/Lestrade_

by

Nana

**Chapter 1**

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Hey! Welcome to another AU story. As promised, here is a little something featuring Mystrade. It starts a few months after the events of my other fic, **Possession**, with DI Lestrade asking unwelcome questions that might blow the entire thing wide open- questions that Vampire!Mycroft will not allow him to ask.

**Dedication:** For **Duo Swords**, who wanted a more in-depth exploration of Mycroft's relationship with his first wife, Anthea, and for **Francis Lovey**, who wanted a Mystrade fic. Enjoy!

* * *

"Well, John," said Mycroft. "How long has it been since we last met? Three months? Four?"

"Three and a half months," confirmed John, nodding.

Mycroft smiled, giving John a nondescript once-over as he sat across from him in the small private room of the Diogenes Club.

To judge from his clothes, John had come directly from work. He looked well. Gone was the haunted visage, the tired lines about his eyes and mouth. His eyes were clear and his cheeks had filled, giving his face a healthy, rounded look.

John looked happy.

To be truthful, Mycroft had wondered how things were going to be between Sherlock and John once they moved past the honeymoon stage.

"I trust everything is well with Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

A slight tilt of John's lips was his only reply.

Definitely happy.

Goodness only knew how they were doing it in that distant dream sphere of theirs, but it seemed his brother and John were making it work.

_That's good_, thought Mycroft.

"You didn't mind that I got you into the Diogenes as a member? That will help explain your occasional visits here without drawing attention to our...association," he said.

"I did wonder about the membership card when it arrived in the mail, yeah," said John.

"But I take it this is not a courtesy call?" said Mycroft, eyebrows lifted.

"No."

"I thought so."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Somebody came to my clinic office asking about Sherlock," he began carefully. "He came the other day. A Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Mycroft's smile receded ever so slightly. "Oh?"

"He says he's investigating the case of the missing boy, Carl Powers. He started asking questions about the circumstances surrounding Sherlock's...death."

Mycroft sighed. "That is already a closed case. All of it," he said heavily.

"Not to this man it's not," said John softly.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'm afraid I couldn't help him," said John, shrugging. "I signed Sherlock out of my care before he went back to Oxford, and I knew nothing of what happened to him there."

"That's good."

"I don't think Lestrade bought any of it," said John.

Mycroft said nothing, merely returned John's stare.

"We have a situation, you know that, don't you?" John continued. "Inspector Lestrade has managed, for some reason, to connect Sherlock with the disappearance of Carl Powers, and you know where that is ultimately going to lead."

"Lestrade was in charge of the boy's case," said Mycroft. "I took care to provide all the details to ensure that the case was closed early this year. Everything has been take care of."

"Everything except giving the grieving parents something concrete about the boy."

"There is nothing left of him to give back," returned Mycroft, his words deliberately, dangerously soft and slow.

John was unperturbed. "Lestrade will have to know...something; otherwise he will not stop asking questions."

"I can _make _him stop asking questions," said Mycroft flatly.

"No." John shook his head. "No, you're not. This is a good man, Mycroft. Don't make him disappear. In fact, don't do anything to him."

"He cannot go around asking these questions."

"Perhaps the best way would be to tell him something about the truth concerning Jim Moriarty?"

"What? That he was a dangerous devil worshipper and head of the Church of Blood?" Mycroft scoffed. "If the Metropolitan police force gets wind of that, just how far behind are the tabloids?"

John did not seem to have heard him. "Don't do anything to the man," he merely repeated. "He just needs information to give to the parents."

"He needs to be contained," said Mycroft. "You are right to call my attention to this matter, John. I will see what I can do."

There was a finality to Mycroft's tone that signaled that things had been settled. John's shoulders sagged. After a moment, he nodded.

"I take it Sherlock has been showing you the contents of his mind palace?" asked Mycroft, changing the subject as John made to take his leave.

"Bits and pieces," said John evasively as he shrugged into his coat.

"Hmm." Mycroft nodded, already lost in thought. "Make sure to ask him about his stint as a pirate. I seem to remember that time of his life as one of his favorites."

Without waiting for John's reaction, Mycroft turned and walked out of the room.

He was displeased. Very much so.

A closed case was a closed case, especially when Mycroft made it so. Everything had already been made clear to the police. It was not in DI Lestrade's power to reopen a case that was going to stay closed, as far as Mycroft was concerned.

Apparently the police inspector did not know who he was dealing with.

Perhaps it was high time he knew.


	2. Chapter 2

**HIS WAY**

_A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU fic_

_Vampire!Mycroft/Lestrade_

_alternating with Vampire!Sherlock/John_

by

Nana

**Chapter 2**

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Yup, that's right! I have decided to put alternating Johnlock chapters into the story. I was planning to write something about vampire!Sherlock's experiences of his older brother in a separate fic, but then thought it might be better to include it here, as it all involves vampire!Mycroft. The latter part is rated T/M, but nothing explicit. More author's notes at the end. Enjoy!

* * *

John walked down the corridors of Sherlock's mind palace, his steps as firm and sure as though he were walking inside his own apartment, and stopped at the door that marked the laboratory that Sherlock used to work in when he was still in Manchester.

He shook his head gently, biting down the wry smile surfacing on his lips. Trust the bloke to carry on working while they were both resonating. Clearly the honeymoon was over.

He pushed open the door and padded noiselessly in.

Sherlock was seated at a far-end table, head bent over a microscope as he scanned through a tray of slides ready at his side.

"You're early," he said, not looking up.

John shrugged. "There wasn't anything good on in the telly," he said. "So I opted for sleep instead."

Sherlock smiled. "Missing me already, are you?"

"Not as much as you do me, I know," returned John as he half-sat, half-leaned against the table beside Sherlock. "Besides, we didn't get to see each other last night."

"Yes."

"What are you working on, anyway?" asked John, peering at the slides.

"Brain tissue," answered Sherlock, tossing a used slide onto the tray and getting another to mount on the microscope. "Mine."

John frowned. "Yours?" he said after a moment. "As in your own brain?"

"Of course. Rather, my deductions about my brain matter in tangible form," Sherlock replied. "Thinking over it works so much better if I have physical models at hand. Ah, the wonder of dreams."

"And what have you reasoned out so far?"

"See for yourself."

John leaned in to peer into the microscope. He raised his eyebrows. "Really? That's how you envision your brain tissue to be? It doesn't look like anything I studied in med school."

"I'm not human, John, in case you should be reminded from time to time," said Sherlock. "Why should my brain resemble yours?"

John exhaled a soft laugh as he removed himself from the microscope. "You're a bundle of fun, aren't you?" he said. "Is this how you spent your spare time back in Manchester?"

"Hmm," Sherlock merely said, his attention already back on the slide before him. "By the way, I need you to attend the North American Neuropsych congress in New York. It's going to be held a few months from now. Make sure you register for it."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Why?" he demanded.

"I will need updates on the neurochemical papers to be presented," murmured Sherlock. "I'm sure Mike will be there as well, so you won't be by yourself. Make sure you pay close attention to the presentations because I will have questions."

"Oh God. The grand inquisition is what it's going to be," sighed John in dismay. "Not to mention a ton of homework for me. I'm a clinician, Sherlock, not a scientist."

"There will be psychiatric panels as well. You can attend those when you're not attending my sessions," argued Sherlock.

"I'm not really sure we're on the same wavelength when it comes to fun," complained John. "As for Mike Stamford, your former boss was in tatters over you the last time I saw him. Your untimely death caused quite a stir in your tiny academic world, in case you'd like to know."

Sherlock made a noncommittal, disinterested grunt as he scanned the slide before him.

A pause, then John asked, "Is this what you're planning to do for the rest of the night? Because I can be just a few doors down watching telly after all."

"Just a few more slides, my love," murmured Sherlock. "Patience. Unless you have something in mind that might entice me from my work right now."

"Hmm. Come to think of it, I do have something in mind," said John. "I didn't re…what are you doing?"

John's voice went soft at the last words as Sherlock's hand landed, light as a feather, on his upper thigh.

"What do you think?" said Sherlock lazily. "Pre-empting you, as usual. Don't worry, I want it just as badly as you do tonight."

John laughed. The pale hand was very persuasive as it started drawing an aimless pattern lightly on his thigh, inching teasingly upward and inward. John found he had to stop it from straying further, if he wanted to have a few minutes of meaningful conversation with Sherlock. He caught the hand with his own and gave it a light, fond squeeze.

"Okay, get your head out of the gutter for a second," he said. "I meant to say that you've been holding out on me over something."

"Oh?" Sherlock's calm gaze did not waver from the microscope.

"Yes. I didn't know you were a pirate once."

Sherlock's gaze lifted to meet John's this time. "You've been talking to Mycroft," he said, his voice still placid, neutral.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I met him today at his club," answered John. "He got me in as a member, would you believe it?"

"Why were you talking to Mycroft?" inquired Sherlock, and John could now feel that his voice had changed, the languid tone gone and something alert and watchful creeping in.

"Somebody's come to see me," said John. "He's asking about you. I would have told you, except we didn't see each other last night. I got worried and asked Mycroft to meet me today."

"Who has come to see you over me?"

"A Detective Inspector Lestrade," said John with a shrug. "Do you know him?"

"Oh. Him." The words were huffed out in a soft sigh and Sherlock returned to scrutinizing his slides. "Forget about him."

"He said he's investigating the disappearance of Carl Powers," John said.

"He would have found something of the boy if he acted on my information sooner," said Sherlock, as though what they were talking about was of little consequence. "Too late now."

"So you do know him," said John. "You've spoken to him at least."

"I called him anonymously to tip him off about Jim Moriarty."

"Well, you're no longer anonymous to him now," said John. "He came to Baker Street asking me about you. Which got me in such a flurry in the first place. He's somehow made the connection between you and the missing boy."

"And you went right ahead and called Mycroft's attention to him," said Sherlock. "Splendid. End of story."

"Wait," said John, bristling at Sherlock's tone. "You mean to say I shouldn't have called Mycroft in? Is that what you're saying? What would you have done if you were in my shoes?"

"Oh, probably the same thing." Sherlock's gaze was bored as he lifted his head briefly to look at John. "At any rate, it's out of your hands now. Let Mycroft take care of him."

"Wait," repeated John, more firmly this time. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you back down now and let Mycroft do his work, John," said Sherlock, his voice deliberately patient and slow. "Isn't that the reason why you called him in the first place? To handle Lestrade?"

"Yes, but I'm just expecting Mycroft to reason things out with him and make him stop his investigation legally, not—" From the way Sherlock was being ominously vague, John was starting to worry.

_Jesus, what have I gotten the poor bastard into?_

Sherlock shook his head, as though he already knew what John was thinking. "There is no right and no wrong in your decision, John," he said. "Don't start tormenting yourself about it."

"Yeah, there are only certain consequences attached to it," muttered John.

_Such as Lestrade losing his life, _he thought._ Jee-sus!_

"Think of it this way," said Sherlock reasonably. "If you didn't call Mycroft in, what would happen? Lestrade would go on asking questions, raising eyebrows and unwanted attention, and sooner or later Mycroft is bound to know about him anyway. You just saved them both some time to get to know each other sooner."

"Oh my God," murmured John as the full enormity of it all sank in.

Silence as they stared at each other for a moment.

"Why did you do it, John?" asked Sherlock softly.

"Because…because he was asking about you. You would have been…I mean, your death—disappearance," said John a bit incoherently. "You could be compromised. What you are, anyway. He can't know—"

"You did it for me, in short," said Sherlock. "You were concerned about me. Thank you, my love."

He stood up to plant a kiss on John's lips. "That perspective ought to make you feel better," he said as he turned away to gather his coat from a nearby stand and slip it on.

"Yeah," said John, vaguely. "I guess."

"So why worry about it?" said Sherlock. "I'm done. Come on. Somebody's in need of a distraction."

* * *

Outside the lab, Sherlock said, "Yes, I was a pirate once."

"You were?" said John as they walked down the corridor and made a left turn onto yet another corridor filled with doors. "Really?"

"For an entire fortnight, yes."

"Why so short?"

A corner of Sherlock's lips tilted up in a fond smirk. "You will realize, John, how difficult it is to feed undetected amid a crew of ruffians in a ship out at sea. What with one thing or another, those kinds of men didn't get to live long and it showed in the quality of their blood," he said. "Besides, once the drinking and carousing started at night, their blood was practically indigestible. I was half-starved all throughout my little adventure."

"So did you at least get to rob some ship of its treasure before you left?"

Sherlock scoffed gently. "I wouldn't call it _robbing_," he said.

"Oh. Right. I suppose_ looting_ would be a better word," said John amiably.

He grinned as he heard a low chuckle from Sherlock.

"Here we are," announced Sherlock as they finally stopped in front of a door.

He opened the coarse wooden door with a little flourish and they entered onto the gently swaying deck of a ship. John grinned in delight as he heard the waves of the sea pounding against the ship's hull. Sunlight from a cloudless blue sky, everywhere. All around them, people were rushing excitedly about, yelling, carrying out assigned duties— strong, hardy men great and small, speaking in a cacophony of languages.

"The summer of 1667. We were preparing to intercept a cargo ship from Spain bound for Porto Bello, in what is now Panama," said Sherlock, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it carelessly away. He nodded at John. "It's too warm for that jacket, don't you think, John?"

John unbuttoned his jacket to find that he was wearing a loose fitting white shirt underneath, and dark brown breeches, stiff with dried salt water. His feet were booted. Sherlock was similarly clad, with an additional wicked-looking dagger thrust into the side of his belt.

Catching John's expression, Sherlock grinned back. John felt that now-familiar, squeezing sensation around his heart as he watched Sherlock's face light up like a boy's who was about to face a grand adventure.

"There."

John turned to where Sherlock was pointing beyond the ship's starboard side.

A speck of black, off the distance, coming into view fast.

More yelling as the men prepared guns and reinforcements, loaded canons. John could feel the ship being stirred in to intercept the other one.

John felt a hand close in on his arm to tug him away gently. "Come on, John," said Sherlock, ushering him out of the way. "Let's get up there for a bird's eye view of things. It's not going to be pretty very soon."

They climbed higher onto the ship's main deck and took in the organized turmoil from down below.

The Spanish ship was huge, already firing canons as soon as it got within range. Being huge, it was also slower, more cumbersome to stir around. Compared to it, their ship was as nimble and fleet-footed as a jackal as it dodged the worst of the adversary's firepower.

Sherlock grinned. "The fight's barely started and that's half their ammunition already," he remarked.

John had to hold onto the wooden railing as their ship finally nosed in to draw alongside the other ship, close enough to board her.

The guns now— small puffs of white smoke appeared along the decks of both ships along with the sound of shots; small explosions amid the shouts and screams that filled the air. Black smoke from fires raged on both sides as the bandits made their move to board the stricken cargo ship.

"Too much, John?" asked Sherlock quietly as John turned away from the gory spectacle of a cabin boy having his throat slashed and his body thrown overboard, clearly visible from the deck of the other ship.

"A bit too much, yeah," he agreed, feeling slightly sick.

"Pirates are pirates," said Sherlock. "Their business is to prey on others. There's nothing comfortable about what they did— and still do in certain parts of the world— nor do they apologize for any of it."

John was beginning to understand the allure of piracy to Sherlock. "Unless they get caught," he said.

"Which would be nobody's fault but theirs," said Sherlock. "They understand that as one of the hazards of their job."

A pause. Then: "Repulsive, are we, John?"

"No." John shook his head, refused to contemplate it even for a moment. "Just…real."

"Come," said Sherlock as he turned away. They went downstairs to the bowels of the ship.

"Captain's cabin," Sherlock announced as he flung the door open.

The room was not big, just enough to accommodate a bunk, some cabinets and a bookcase. Two chairs were strewn around a huge table that took up most of the available space.

"The captain I served, William Higgins, was a sound, practical man," said Sherlock, watching John as he bent to look at the maps and compass laid out on the table, fascinated. "He recruited me straight from the docks after I showed him what I was capable of with a knife. Level-headed and ruthless. He had to be. He had a family back in Liverpool who had no idea what he did as a 'sea merchant'. Brought in a tidy heap of money until he finally got caught a few years down the line of the trade by members of His Majesty's navy and was hanged."

"How did you feel about that?" asked John, interested.

Sherlock shrugged. "About the entire English system back then?" he said. "A load of hypocrisy, obviously. They screamed bloody murder to all pirates when in fact the booty brought in was beneficial to the national economy at one point or another. Just ask Mycroft."

"No, I mean, how do you feel about William Higgins living his life like that?"

"He was more adventurous than the typical bloke of his day and age, I'd give him that. He saw more of the world, met some exciting people. I wouldn't think he had any regrets. If we've only one life to live, we might as well make the most of it."

Just then the door slammed open again and the man who must be William Higgins stormed in, arguing with a second man, bearded and bloodstained, who must be his first officer.

"Ah, they're taking stock of the loot right now. Let's go back up, John," said Sherlock almost gleefully.

It was, by all standards, an impressive haul. There was gold, silver and a bit of jewelry, of course, but there were also other goods worth almost their weight in gold: rare spices and medicines, costly silks and other textiles, exotic foods and wines that spoke of other places and other ways of life. Barrels and boxes and wooden crates filled with wares of all sorts, ready to be traded for cash or kind anywhere. Ammunitions to replace what they had used, which could also be sold and traded.

Now the brawling began as they began to make an inventory of the goods, to be divided among the men according to their agreed portions. The injured were taken downstairs to be treated in their tiny sickbay, the dead counted and tossed off to the waiting, bottomless depths of the hungry sea. John did not hang around to see what they would do to the captive crew of the other ship.

He turned to Sherlock, who merely nodded. When John looked back again, the deck was empty of people and riches and it was just the two of them in the clean, undamaged ship. Even with their telepathic abilities severed after Sherlock went to sleep, Sherlock had never failed to read John's mind correctly.

It was a glorious day. John closed his eyes, smiling, as he felt the wind whip back his hair and smelled the clean, salty tang of the ocean in the air. Sherlock let John man the helm of the ship as he directed him in which way to turn, watched in amusement as he tried to hoist a sail up a mast all by himself.

Together, they watched the sun set, that disc of gold painting the sky and the waves of the sea in various shades of pink, flaming orange, and red before it drowned in the ocean and the deep blues and purples of early evening crept in.

Dinner was in the captain's cabin— a small feast of the pillaged delicacies from the other ship: a huge ham roasted in honey, chicken and fish with zesty lemons. Also fresh fruit and olives. Luxurious wines. John was not as hungry as he thought he would be, now that he had seen firsthand how these things were obtained, but he ate to please Sherlock. Sherlock watched as John ate, talking all the while of the places he had been to during his two short weeks as a pirate, and several more weeks wandering around the Carribean: the sights and smells of foreign shores and cities, meeting people whose ways were unfamiliar and fascinating, a way of life totally different from the dour one back home.

John knew Sherlock liked to watch him eat, liked to see that he was impressed and amazed by the food set out before him, that he found the food delicious. John remembered being shy and uncomfortable under his lover's scrutiny the first few times, especially when Sherlock had simply sat across him and remained silent, his gaze full and heavy with want as it feasted over John. He knew that it was, of course, quite ridiculous to invite Sherlock to eat with him, but John had not been able to resist making the courtesy, to which he had been given the enigmatic reply: "Later. I shall take my pleasure later."

It never failed to arouse John, and he was aroused now as he listened to Sherlock talk and felt his eyes on him. While he was asleep, Sherlock was spared of his need to feed, although he was quite demanding with his other needs which served him in lieu of physical hunger. John knew with a _frisson_ of anticipation that there would be other entertainments reserved for later, when dinner was over.

Afterwards, they went back up to take in the night air. John had to exclaim over the bright, full moon, the sea of stars overhead and how they appeared so much closer, brighter, than John thought was possible. They settled down on the upper deck, listening to the soothing waves below them and watching the stars overhead. Soon, talk gradually trickled away and John could feel his heartbeat accelerate. He turned to Sherlock just as he felt gentle fingers caressing the side of his face.

"My turn," whispered Sherlock.

"Yes," John merely breathed a second before he felt his lover's mouth on his own.

_How is it possible_, thought John as soon as he could think again, after Sherlock had removed his mouth from his to apply it elsewhere, everywhere, on his body, _that every time could feel like the very first one?_

The whisper of cloth as Sherlock made short work of unwrapping John from his clothes, the pull of his hands slightly rough, eager like a child opening a present.

A pause as Sherlock sat back to loom over John. Above him, Sherlock's face was in shadow, his voice silky and dark as night as he said, "Open your mouth, John."

With a soft sigh, John parted his lips. And felt two long fingers being pushed gently into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth.

"Lick," instructed Sherlock.

John obeyed with a low moan as understanding finally dawned, licking Sherlock's fingers, sucking at them. Making sure they were well-coated with saliva for the task at hand.

_Definitely like the first time_, thought John with a shiver of excitement as he felt Sherlock withdraw his fingers from his mouth to place them elsewhere on his body. _Always something new._

* * *

They subsided in a heap, panting. Sated for the time being.

"Definitely missed you," gasped John.

"You didn't entirely like the pirate scenery I presented earlier, did you?" Sherlock's words seemed like a shot that came from nowhere.

Surprised by the blunt question, John went still, contemplating Sherlock's query and his own answer. He decided he wasn't going to lie to please Sherlock this time around. "No," he finally said. "I didn't like some bits of it, but it's real. That's what matters. It's what you've experienced."

"No judgment?"

"I love you. You know that will always be my final judgment on our case."

John felt soft, warm lips brush the side of his face and smiled. He would have wanted those lips to continue down toward his mouth, but Sherlock had lifted his head to gaze down at him.

"Listen, John," he said, his voice serious. "About Mycroft."

"Yes?" John felt his worry return instantly upon hearing that name.

"I meant what I said. Once you've given a matter over to him, stay out of his way."

John stared up at Sherlock, trying to make out his features in dark shadow. He knew he was risking an argument now, but he found himself asking, "And did you stay out of his way when you brought him in to settle our little problem last year?"

"That was different and you know it," Sherlock snapped in reply.

John pressed his lips together. "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have told him about Lestrade," he finally muttered.

"No use crying over spilled milk. Isn't that the proper human expression for circumstances such as this?"

John sighed. The caressing fingers in his hair hardened their grip by a few degrees.

"Promise me," said Sherlock, "that you won't get in his way."

"Yeah. Okay," John said quickly. "I promise."

It was, he would later realize, his first conscious lie to Sherlock during their time together.

"Why have you gotten your knife so deep into him?" John wanted to know as Sherlock settled back down beside him, still huffy.

"Too many things have happened between us in the course of our long lives," said Sherlock curtly.

John turned to look at him. "Such as?" he asked softly.

"I'd rather not talk about any of it right now."

John raised himself on one elbow. "Show me then," he said.

* * *

**More author's notes**: I based the small detail of piracy near Porto Bello on the career of Sir Henry Morgan, Admiral of the British Navy, privateer and pirate, although in his case he went straight for the prize and attacked Porto Bello itself.


End file.
